Free Flash Gordon by Arthur Byron Cover Page B

one releasing enough oxygen near the exhaust pipes so that a tiny flickering flame erupted into a bolt of fire behind the capsule. The fire died as the capsule, now an insignificant mote, neared Jupiter.
    Unbeknownst to all but a few confused scientists who were scanning space for clues to the phenomena occurring on Earth, the vibratory patterns of the ether altered in unfathomable, subtle ways, through incomprehensible means.
    The emptiness of space gave way to red and yellow and chartreuse mists borne from some unperceived location upon ghostly winds. Gradually the mists became tumultuous; gradually the capsule became ensnared in a swirling whirlpool of myriad colors, a whirlpool of such power and celestial force that no creature, whatever its species, whatever its resources, could realistically consider escaping. Nor could any creature, whatever its surveying abilities, hope to absorb all the minute shades of the infinite sea of colors writhing like the waters of an agonized planet. A man could liken it only to the fires of the primordial universe, save that this sea of colors radiated no heat. The capsule floated through mists formed not by atoms, but by the parts of atoms, parts searching for form and function and for the fulfillment of a balanced environment. It floated through mists of jasmine, platinum yellow, vermilion, salmon, and sapphire. It floated through scientific impossibilities made mundane by the true realities and physics of the universe.
    Eventually, other conglomerations of matter joined the capsule on the journey through the mists. Charred husks, all that remained of burnt-out comets. Meteors. Tiny asteroids. Clouds of space gas. The corpse of an interstellar creature. Upon entering the mists, the capsule left the solar system. After it had traveled for a spell, it reached a location no Terran equation could account for. Perhaps there was no location, perhaps there were many. Or perhaps the capsule had arrived upon a dimensional plane where all concepts of space and time were meaningless abstractions bearing no relevance to these mists—mists of matter so dormant it could not even be accurately described as inert.
    Inside the capsule, Flash, Dale, and Zarkov were bathed in a succession of colorful lights. Dale, caught in the throes of a passionate dream, sweated profusely, breathed heavily, and tossed her head about. Flash dreamed of expansive fields, a shirt slung across his bare back, and a blazing yellow sun. Zarkov blinked; for a fleeting instant (for an hour?) he glimpsed the swirling lights. In a dim portion of his numbed mind he comprehended what was happening, and he mumbled, “Space is a device to keep everything from being in the same place.” Then he returned to oblivion.
    The forces attacking Earth inexorably drew the capsule upon its journey, refusing to relinquish their hold even as the husk of obsolete parts reached a section of space which was the threshold of the eternal past and the infinite future. Vast, superintelligent beings composed of nebulous matter examined the capsule from their vantage point near the time of the universe’s passing. They perceived its birth from the parts acquired from junkyards and they deduced its innumerable destinies. Then they deemed it insignificant and turned their attention to worthier matters. Probes from other races transmitted information back to computers founded on principles entirely different than those for computers on Earth. Before the alien scientists could decide if they wanted to deflect the capsule and examine it personally, the forces which had already ensnared it pulled it out of the probe’s reach.
    The capsule moved past (and perhaps through) magnificent sights. Galaxies spun majestically, seeming to throw away the stars of the spirals like luminescent dust. The corpse of an alien cosmonaut—the size of an elephant, with tentacled legs and clawed hands, its body perfectly preserved in its gray spacesuit—floated above the